The Trespass (26 page)

“Hey, boss?” Bek stage-whispered. “You know what they say is behind those pictures?”

Dracup shook his head.

“Only the past and future of the world.” Bek grinned. “They say.”

Dracup examined the cloth. He moved to one side to get a clearer view of the detail. The crucifixion. The garden of Eden. Dracup squinted. Again a nautical Ark, but land-bound this time, immersed not in water but in the process of construction. Ramps and pulleys strained and pushed the great timbers into position, workers tarred and pitched or toiled with hammers and saws alongside the huge bulk of the boat, the site overseen by a lone figure, standing at a distance, staff in hand. Dracup looked closer. The staff was surmounted by a great cross. Dracup caught his breath. He remembered the photograph he had taken earlier, the apocalyptic picture featuring the same sceptre.

“Bek, can you tell me what this says?” He thrust the camera under the boy’s nose.

“Sure, boss, it’s like I was saying. These are the last days, man. The end of the world and all that.”

“Can you read it all to me, please?”

“Okay.” Bek peered at the jpg. “It says
‘Judgement falls – the sun grows dark and the stars fall to Earth. Omega.’
He cocked his head. “Like I said, boss: the future of the world. You take that photo in Giorgis? You’re lucky they let you, boss.”

Omega. Was it connected? Dracup knew the symbol was used extensively in Christian apocalyptic literature. Hardly surprising to find a reference in Lalibela, then. He grunted. “It’s about time I had some luck, Bek. Wait – something’s happening.”

A strong smell of incense wafted across to where he and Bek waited like uninvited guests at a wedding. And then a priest moved out from behind the altar carrying an object that caused Dracup to gasp and lean on the wall for support. Bek nudged him.

“That’s it, boss. The Lalibela cross.” He looked oddly at Dracup. “You all right or what?”

Dracup inched forward. It was the right shape, but there was something missing. And then he realised. There were no inscriptions. The cross was smooth. Beautiful, exquisitely worked, yes, but
smooth
.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “Perhaps the other side –” But then the priest presented the staff to his assistant, who took it and rotated until he faced down the church towards them. Dracup had a 360-degree view. No inscriptions – even at this distance there was no doubt. And another thing – it was whole, complete.

“That’s what you’re after, huh?” Bek asked. “But no writing on it, that’s the problem, yes?”

“Yes.” Dracup was responding automatically to Bek’s verbal spaghetti, like he’d always done when Natasha was little. He’d always had his mind on tomorrow’s lectures, or some research paper. No time for a little girl’s chatter. He pushed the thought aside.
No, wait. The boy knows something
.

“I’ll tell you more if you want but, you know boss... I can’t tell all of it unless...”

Dracup clicked his fingers.
It’s not the real sceptre.

“My mother, you know, she has five of us to feed.”

The Lalibela cross is
a replica
... of the
original
sceptre.

“It’s only money, boss, right?”

Dracup turned to Bek, his heart beating with excitement. “You know about this, don’t you? You really do.”

Bek drew him into the shadows of the church. In the background the priests had begun chanting. The building was fragrant with the smell of incense. “Look, boss. It’s a big secret, right. I only found out by accident. If anyone finds out that I know – that I told –”

“I understand. I’ll never breathe a word. Just tell me and you can disappear. Forget you ever saw me.”

“Disappear what? You can’t get to it easy, you know. You need Bek around for a bit at least.”

“How much?” Dracup would have emptied his bank account for the information, but better not let the boy know that…

The deal was renegotiated, and they slipped out of the service into the sunlight. Dracup caught the boy’s arm and held him still. “The cross in the church – it’s a copy, isn’t it?”

Bek nodded and gave an awkward grin.

“But how did you find that out, I wonder?”

“Bek knows stuff. I know Lalibela, okay?”

Dracup watched the boy carefully. There was something in his manner that concerned him. “Bek. What does your mother do to look after you? Does she work in the fields? Help the farmers?” He spoke gently, guessing at the pain lying below the effusive surface.

“Nothing much, boss. She manages good.” He turned away.

“And your father?”

“We don’t talk about him. He’s long gone. And I don’t care.” Bek spat the words.

“It’s pretty hard, isn’t it?” Dracup looked into the boy’s eyes.

Bek looked down, kicked a rock and watched it spinning away. “I need the money, boss. I look out for my mother, so she doesn’t have to –” He broke off, stuffing his hands firmly into the ragged pockets of his shorts.

Bek’s discomfort was painful to watch. Dracup put a hand on his shoulder. “Look, I’ll make sure you’re well rewarded for this. I promise. Now, just tell me where we have to go.”

“No problem, boss. Stick to me and you’ll be fine.”

Dracup grinned at the boy’s resilience. “Your call, then.” Dracup held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Not like that, boss. Gimme five, okay? Look.” He raised his arm threateningly. Dracup grimaced and received the slap.

“Now you. Come on, boss. You guys invented this.”

“We most certainly did not.” Dracup gingerly patted Bek’s outstretched hand. “It was our friends across the ocean.”

Bek laughed, then looked at him curiously. “You’re a good guy, boss.” He nodded emphatically. “You sure are.”

Bek led Dracup up the plateau and away from the main town. His legs ached. He remembered Yvonne’s words as he trudged along behind Bek.
What am I going to tell the police? That you’re chasing off after some archaeological trinket like the British answer to Indiana Jones?

Bek turned and waved. “Almost there, boss.”

“Almost where?”

“At the place. Seriously, boss, you’ll be amazed when you see.”

The vertical face of rock loomed over them, and Dracup could see the spots of darkness upon it that indicated the presence of openings in the mountainside. It was like the pit of Bet Giorgis but on a grander scale. Inanimate but inhabited none the less. Shadows moved within the shadows.

“Who are these people?” Dracup asked.

“Holy men, they live here all the time. Pretty crazy some of them, but they don’t do any harm, boss. No worries there.”

“How do they survive?” Dracup shook his head in wonder.

“Same as all of us, boss. We do it okay, somehow.”

They passed a group of youngsters returning from the mountain. Dracup envied them their youth and tourist status. They were all smiles and “Hi theres” as they passed the boy and his toiling middle-aged charge on the uneven path.

They stopped for a rest. Dracup leaned on an emaciated tree and swigged from his flask. He offered some to Bek, who shook his head emphatically. Dracup hadn’t seen the boy drink anything. He seemed indefatigable.

“The sun’ll be going down soon, Bek – are we going to make it before nightfall?”

“It’s right up this way now. Very close.”

He followed Bek for a further ten minutes until the boy suddenly deviated from the path at a sharp bend in the track. He caught up in time to see Bek squeeze through a gap in two large rock formations into an open area studded with scrub and piles of boulders, haphazardly scattered about as if some giant had pulled pieces off the side of the mountain and dropped them carelessly on his way down. At the far corner of the clearing and set into the side of the rock face was a door, arched and surmounted by roughly hewn pillars. It looked almost natural but for the sculpted appearance of the supports – part of the mountain, yet, like the others, moulded by men into something remarkable.

Dracup wiped his brow and marvelled at the sight. “What on earth? This isn’t one of the eleven –”

Bek was smiling oddly and shaking his head. “No, boss. I told you, didn’t I? This is the twelfth, yah? The one nobody knows about. The
twelfth
rock church of Lalibela.”

“Diplomatically unwise? For the love of God, will you tell me what this guy is on?” Potzner threw the receiver at its base unit where it bounced with a dull, plastic crack onto the surface of the desk. “Tell me, Farrell, because I don’t understand how diplomacy takes a higher priority than what we’re trying to achieve here.”

“I guess things are kind of sensitive right now. The President needs to keep the Brits sweet. The PM is a good guy for us – we don’t want to piss him off by muscling in on their internal affairs.”

“Muscling in?
Konska spierolina!
Unless we muscle in pretty damn quick this is going to slip away from us – possibly for good.”

“It’s a direct order, sir. We can’t approach Moran.”

“Then we’ll be indirect. And as he’s such a busy guy, we won’t trouble the inspector. Yet.”

Farrell settled back in his chair. Potzner was thinking on his feet. That was normal. The agitation wasn’t. Neither was the Polack expletive – Potzner only resorted to his mother tongue
in extremis
. Farrell watched his boss pace the room and wondered how things would pan out. It wasn’t looking good. Potzner’s complexion was greyer than ever, the lines around his mouth more pronounced. They had a word for it in the Department.
Burnout
. Thing was, how close could he get to the fire without getting burned himself?

Potzner knocked on the polished front door. A second later he saw the shape of Dracup’s wife peering at him through the translucent glass panel. Waiting. Hanging on every sound, every ring of the phone. When she opened the door he was struck by her composure. Attractive, petite. He knew why she and Dracup had split, but found himself wondering if he would have let it happen the same way.

“Yes?”

“James Potzner. I believe your husband may have mentioned me.”

She looked him up and down. “He did. Come in.”

Potzner followed Yvonne into her orderly domain. Fresh flowers were present in the hall and the lounge. The house felt prepared, expectant.
Ready for her baby to come home.

“Have you come – I mean, is there any news of –”

Potzner shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I have to say at the outset that I haven’t come to tell you any more about your daughter. I was rather hoping you could tell me something I need to know.”

Yvonne nodded. “Sit down, please.”

Potzner watched her carefully. Did she know? Had Dracup confided in her?

“How can I help?”

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs Dracup –”

“Just Yvonne is fine.”

“Okay – Yvonne.” Potzner smiled. “I want to know where your husband is.”

“My
ex
-husband. Well, so would I.”

The reply had returned like a tennis backhand, straight down the line. She was ready for this. Potzner nodded. A tough cookie. “He didn’t mention anything about your daughter – where he might have been looking for her?”

“No.”

“I see.” Potzner moistened his lips. “Tell me, Yvonne, do you live alone?”

“I don’t see that that’s any business of yours, Mr Potzner.”

Potzner sighed. “Actually, Yvonne, it is. It’s all
very
relevant.” There was no one present in the house, he knew. Oh yes, there was a man often
in residence
, but he was busy with his networks on some client site in London. Potzner remembered Dracup’s assessment of the IT specialist and his lip curled with amusement.

“Is there something funny, Mr Potzner?”

“Nope. Nothing funny.” Potzner stood up and walked across the lounge carpet towards Yvonne. He felt in his pocket for the cold metal of the handcuffs. Now that he had decided on a course of action he felt a sense of detachment. What had to be done had to be done. Period. He watched Yvonne’s face, how her expression had yet to show any sign of alarm. How frail she was. How frail
women
were, for all their bravado and self-assurance. “Now, Yvonne. It’s just you and me. And I
really
need to know what your
ex
-husband has been saying to you.”

Yvonne maintained her composure. Her mobile phone lay on the arm of the chair. “If you’re threatening me, Mr Potzner, you’d better think again.”

Potzner was taken aback by her confidence. Perhaps there was a reason she... his own mobile vibrated against his thigh with an insistent pulse. He gave Yvonne a curt nod. “Excuse me a moment.”

Yvonne returned the nod and took the opportunity to escape from her chair. He heard her next door in the kitchen clattering cups. The running of a tap. Another noise – the kettle, zapping its current through ice cold water. But by then Potzner’s world had slowed to a standstill. Because the voice on the phone was Al Busby, their neighbour on West Penn Street, Philly. Al was a good guy; Potzner had lost count of the baseball games they’d yelled through together, the bottles of Bud they’d shared on the patio of a summer’s evening. He was the sort of guy you could rely on, and they
had
relied on him – and Evelyn, his fiery little wife of forty years. She was an ex-nurse – and boy, she knew her stuff. That had been reassuring, to know she was just a few metres away if they needed any help. Hospitals always listened up when one of their own made a report or request. Once, when Abi had needed something stronger for the pain, Evelyn had marched down to ER herself, taken no prisoners and organised a home assessment that same afternoon. Red tape cut to shreds. The Busbys. There when you needed them, invisible when you didn’t and wanted a little space for yourselves. His extended UK stay had been made more bearable by their presence right next door to Abi.